


there's another life beyond the line

by MagicalSpaceDragon



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (attempted) Sex as Self-Harm, Alcoholism but more as a metaphor, Depression, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalSpaceDragon/pseuds/MagicalSpaceDragon
Summary: Ratchet's dead. Rodimus isn't handling it well. Thunderclash is doing what he can.
Relationships: Rodimus | Rodimus Prime & Thunderclash
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28





	there's another life beyond the line

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my wips for a year or two at this point and. can i just say. boy howdy.

He shows up to his bridge shift—well, not on time, but not as late as usual. He's actually feeling almost _good_ about it—he didn't even need to blunt the worst of the whole _existing and being conscious_ deal with any shitty, watered-down engex. Oh, he'd _wanted_ to, but somehow the desire hadn't mysteriously transformed into a bottle at his mouth.

He's _sober,_ for once, and it's not actually completely terrible. Maybe talking to Drift for the first time in years has something to do with it. He'd felt—a twinge of guilt, he'd call it, seeing his friend's worried expression. It wasn't fair of him to shove all his own issues in Drift's face like that, not with...

"Looks like someone's finally putting in an effort," someone mutters, low enough he knows he wasn't supposed to hear it.

Never mind. Sobriety is for chumps.

His hand twitches towards where he keeps a bottle in his subspace, except the familiar weight is missing—hell, he took it out in his hab, didn't he. Thought he'd try to do right by Drift or some slag like that. _Idiot. Drift isn't ever going to know either way._

'Keep in touch.' Ha. He's never been anything but a slagger to Drift and they both know it. Drift, who went through hell, who did all sorts of awful slag but then got clean and stayed clean, who settled down with someone who could actually love him back—

He rubs his optics and vents hard. _Ratchet's gone._ He keeps remembering that, and it's not getting any easier to wrap his head around. Ratchet is _dead._

_Like it affects you at all,_ the selfish voice in his head says. _You haven't talked to him in centuries. As far as you're concerned he might as well have been dead all this time._

Dammit, this is what he needs the highgrade for! So he doesn't have to _think_ about how he's been putting off calling the two of them for years, and how maybe if he'd managed to get off his useless aft to just _call—_ if he'd actually mustered up the ability to fragging _care_ about either of them—then maybe he'd have the right to feel like this! But no, he never called, he's a selfish glitch who's just using _Ratchet's death_ as another excuse to wallow in his self-loathing!

The edge of a field brushes against his. Careful, considerate worry. It practically burns. He doesn't have to look to know it's Thunderclash.

_"What,"_ he says, not lifting his face from his hands.

"I know this has been difficult for you," Thunderclash says, stepping in close and keeping his voice low so he's not broadcasting the words to the entire bridge, even though anyone with optics can already see the way Rodimus is hunched over at the console attempting—and failing, clearly—to not make _yet another fucking scene._ "If you need to take some more time to process everything, I could—"

"I'm sober, if that's what you're asking." Thunderclash's warm, perfectly-respectful field briefly falters, replaced by… an all-too-familiar concerned skepticism. The same response he gets whenever he tells _anyone_ he hasn't been drinking. _I know you're lying but I'm not going to call you out on it because you're clearly fragile right now._ He hates it enough when he actually deserves it, but that's nothing compared to how much it stings _now._

"'Clash," he says, whatever miserable excuse for pride he has left forcing him to sit up and make eye contact. "I'm serious. I haven't had a drink all morning."

Thunderclash searches his face, staying in control of his field this time so Rodimus can't tell if he believes him or not. "Alright. My offer still stands, though. If you need more time before returning to your duties…"

"The moment I get back to my hab I'm going to drink myself stupid," he confesses, just as the chatter of the bridge falls into a lull so his voice is nice and loud in the sudden silence. He stares resolutely at Thunderclash's badge and pretends he can't feel the dirty looks the rest of the crew are giving him. "I mean—" His voice has gone small, barely audible even to him. _Primus,_ he's a mess. "I mean—I'm good. In here. I'll do my shift."

Thunderclash looks at him a bit longer, nods and says something respectful and gently supportive that Rodimus barely hears, and leaves him to it.

Wow. He showed up to a shift only a little late, completely sober for _once,_ and he didn't bail on it the literal first chance he got. Somebody give him a fragging medal or something.

(Awarding pointless medals for stupid things! Great reminder! Just the _perfect_ capper for his day, and his shift has barely even started yet!

Of all the people he's lost—of all the fragging death he caused over the course of the war, all the people he couldn't save—why is _he_ the one who haunts him the most?)

His shift passes in less of a haze than he'd like. Nothing happens on the bridge to distract him—nothing _ever_ happens on the bridge to distract him—so his thoughts chase themselves in circles for hours. True to his word, by the time he's off duty he's desperate to numb them, or maybe blot them out of his memory entirely. Ha, yeah, that sounds good. Get so blackout drunk that it's like today never happened.

"Rodimus," Thunderclash says behind him, and it's only those same last vestiges of his _fragging_ pride that keep him from screaming in frustration as he stops dead in the hall.

"Yeah, 'Clash?" he says, aiming for nonchalant and missing spectacularly.

Thunderclash catches up with him. Rodimus hates that he lets the captain make eye contact, because it leaves him feeling unexpectedly bare and vulnerable. "I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to the common room. I picked up a new board game at one of our recent stops and I haven't had the opportunity to try it out yet."

His face feels like it does some pretty interesting things as he tries to process that. _"What?"_

"You indicated to me," Thunderclash says, doing that 'quiet but not drawing attention by whispering' thing Rodimus never _did_ get the hang of, "that you didn't want to spend your off-shift alone."

Okay, no, Rodimus _remembers_ what he 'indicated' to Thunderclash, and it was the _exact_ opposite of that. "So you want me to… come play board games with you." In the common room. Where he'll be able to see people looking at him. While, again, _sober._

Thunderclash smiles easily, field nothing but genuine. "I find that they can be quite a relaxing way to pass the time."

Rodimus snorts. "Look, Clashy, I appreciate the offer, but I've got a date waiting for me back at my place. Maybe some other time." He pushes past Thunderclash and heads back to his hab.

Or he tries to. But suddenly there's an Autobrand staring him down. He flinches away from the broad frame blocking his path.

"Rodimus," the captain says, voice so tired and just-this-side-of-disappointed that it almost makes him flinch again. "I respect that you can make your own choices, and I don't want to push you, but can you _honestly_ tell me you have anything better to do right now?"

Ow. Ow ow ow okay.

_"Fine,"_ he grits out. He refuses to look up.

Thunderclash's field softens again, and somehow that's worse. "Just one game. That's all I ask. We don't even need to talk."

"Whatever."

\--

Rodimus puts himself in a chair with his back to the rest of the room so he can pretend no one notices the two of them. He grabs the rules sheet and stares through it while Thunderclash sets the board up. 

"May I ask a rude question?"

"You're going to."

Thunderclash has the decency to sound sheepish. "I'd rather not push you more than I already—"

_"Ask,_ Clash."

He makes a noise like he's trying to work out the best way to put it. "Have you really been sober all day?"

"Hold your gasps of shock," Rodimus grumbles. _"Yes,_ I'm really sober. I… couldn't go right back to that. Not after seeing Drift. _Primus_ I wish I had, though."

"I believe I understand your thinking," Thunderclash says, tactfully ignoring that last part. "I spoke with Drift once about his history—"

"Of _course_ you did."

"—And I imagine that as such a close friend of his, you know far more about his experiences than I do," he continues, undeterred. "I'm sure he'd be proud of you for making that choice."

Rodimus snorts. "Yeah, we're real fragging close. You can tell from all the awkward silence." He shouldn't ask, he shouldn't ask, but— "Why did that even come up, anyway?"

"I was visiting Ratchet," Thunderclash says softly. Right, frag, Ratchet and 'Clash are— _were—_ friends. If anyone on this ship has a right to be upset about Ratchet, it's _him,_ not Rodimus. "It was because I mentioned being concerned about you, actually."

His head snaps up in shock. "You _what?"_

Thunderclash nods, face and field somber. "They asked me how you were doing. They hadn't heard from you in a while, and—Rodimus?"

"Yeah?" he says, pretending he doesn't feel hollow. Ratchet's dead. Ratchet's his _crew._ Ratchet _asked about him._ "You alright there, Clashy? Lose your train of thought?"

Thunderclash meets his optics—belatedly Rodimus realizes they're burning white-hot, he must look like a mess—then lets his gaze roam over the room behind them. People, how many people were in here? He doesn't remember. How many of the crew are going to watch him have yet another fragging _childish outburst_ like a newbuild who hasn't calibrated their emotional responses yet? Is it any _wonder_ no one's ever taken him seriously?

He's shaking.

"I think," Thunderclash says quietly, "that it may be prudent to have the rest of this conversation in private. My quarters?"

Rodimus laughs, too-loud and humorless. _"Wow,_ Clash, I didn't know you were the type."

Thunderclash nearly recoils. "I beg your pardon?"

"Picking up a mech who's at his worst because you know he's too lonely to say no and too fragged up to remember why he should?" He grins. It's brittle. "That's _low."_

Thunderclash's optics are huge and hurt. "Rodimus, I would never take advantage of _anyone_ like that, least of all you!"

"'Course you wouldn't," he says indulgently. The rest of the room has gone silent. See, _this,_ he can deal with. Saying awful fragged-up shit he doesn't mean and can't take back because getting a rise out of people makes him feel like a _big mech._

And the worst part is that he kind of _wants_ Thunderclash to take advantage. It's exactly the kind of terrible decision he needs right now. He wants to do something stupid and cruel, something he'll regret, because there's no Magnus to hold him back, no Drift to smooth out his edges, no Megatron to—

He scatters the pieces across the table in his rush to stand up. The chair thuds on the ground behind him but he's already on his way out, sudden need to have the thoughts fragged out of his head the only thing keeping him from losing it in front of everyone. "Come on, Clashy, don't keep me waiting!" He doesn't even look over his shoulder.

Thunderclash's footsteps follow him into the hall as he makes a beeline back to his own hab. He doesn't say a word, and his field's locked down tight, but Rodimus can still catch flickers of _something_ ugly. What the hell, is he actually going to _do_ it? All the scrap Rodimus has been dumping onto him over the centuries, and _this_ is what finally makes him snap? That's hilarious. That's _amazing._ That's exactly what he wanted and the weird, tense, completely terrified feeling in his spark can _shut up._

_He could just beat you into next week, too,_ his thoughts remind him as the captain follows him into his hab. _He's big enough._ Good. Fucking _let_ him. He wants to _hurt._

He throws himself backwards onto his berth, clanging in the otherwise silent room. The captain's expression is unreadable.

The door closes, cutting off the light from the hallway, and suddenly he can't pretend it's even a little bit sexy. Suddenly Rodimus is alone in a dark, confined space, on his back, with an angry, hulking mech blocking the only exit and glaring down at him with red optics.

"Never mind!" he squeaks. He scrabbles backwards, trying to get into a more defensible position and only managing to trap himself in the corner. "Sorry, never mind, this was stupid, you can go—"

The suffocating field lightens. The captain takes a step to the side, and then another, and then a third, hitting the lights as he goes, and then Thunderclash is standing in his room looking at him with something that's definitely _not_ anger, far enough away from the door that Rodimus could get out faster than he'd be able to grab him.

"Do you want me to leave?" Thunderclash asks, so, _so_ gently.

_Yes, are you crazy? No, please don't leave me alone with the highgrade while I'm feeling like this. Yes, I hate the way you're looking at me._ "I. I don't know." Oh, what the hell, what's one more life-threatening risk at this point. "Stay?"

"Alright." Thunderclash doesn't move from his spot. After a moment's hesitation, Rodimus scoots to the edge of the berth and dangles his feet over the floor. He could be up and out of here in seconds. He repeats that to himself over and over.

"So, that was kind of a mood-killer," he jokes weakly. Thunderclash's face falls in pity and—is that _frustration?_

"I'm not here to _interface_ with you, Rodimus." It _is._ Real, genuine, losing-my-patience-with-you frustration. _Wow._ "I want to _talk."_

"Okay." He crosses his arms so his hands stop shaking. "So talk. And sit down already, you look stupid."

Thunderclash gives him _some_ kind of look, but sits down in the chair. He carefully moves a few bottles out of the way so he can rest his arm on the desk, then stares at the label on one of them, collecting his thoughts or whatever. Rodimus would be impatient if he weren't so fucking _nervous._

…No, he's still impatient. "Seriously, _what."_

Thunderclash sighs and doesn't look up. "I don't know. I had an idea before, but… It would be in poor taste to be angry with you right now."

"You're a goddamn _coward."_

Thunderclash has the gall to look startled. Rodimus snarls, leaning forward. _"In poor taste?_ The one time I think you might finally get _angry_ at me, and you tell me it would be in _poor taste?"_ He's shouting. Is he trying to hurt Thunderclash, or does he want Thunderclash to hurt him? "Am I just a _joke_ to you? _Local embarrassment found dead in a puddle of highgrade, witnesses say he died of fright when the Greatest Autobot Ever raised his voice at him—"_

"That's _not_ what I meant," Thunderclash says, almost desperate. "I don't want to make this any harder on you than it already has been—"

"Stop _coddling_ me!" He's on his feet and taking a half-step forward before he can stop himself. What the hell is he gonna do, _attack_ the captain? "I'm not _fragile._ I'm a messed-up, selfish _glitch_ and I _hate_ myself and it's not your responsibility to _fix_ me so _stop fucking trying!"_

He's venting hard. He's pretty sure his fingers are digging into his palms hard enough to scrape up paint.

Thunderclash stares at him, obviously _torn_ by some _noble internal struggle,_ and then something surfaces in his expression. Something hard and ugly that doesn't quite fit on his face, like it's not used to being there. It makes him look like an actual _person._ "You want me to be angry with you."

Rodimus scowls right back. "Thanks for getting with the program, 'Clash."

"And you want me to stop coddling you."

He bares his teeth. "If it's not too much _trouble."_

"Alright, then." Thunderclash leans back, crosses his arms, and fixes Rodimus with an ice-cold glare that matches his field. _"Get over yourself._ You aren't the only one who isn't handling Ratchet's death well."

He flinches. "I—!"

"Sit down, I'm still talking," Thunderclash says flatly. Rodimus can't quite believe himself when he obeys. "I asked Ratchet and Drift for advice, you know. What I could do to help you. Drift told me to be a stable, non-judgmental presence. Ratchet told me to call you out on your slag, but let you deal with things in your own time." He spreads his hands in defeat. "Look at how far that's gotten us."

Rodimus opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

Thunderclash eyes him like he's expecting a response, then rubs his nasal ridge and sighs. The gesture is so _Megatron_ it hurts. "I don't know what you want from me. If you hate me half as much as I think you do some days, I can't _imagine_ what possesses you to stay on this ship."

"I don't hate you," he mumbles, looking away. It's the truth.

"That's nice." He flinches, again. "And yet here we are. I _like_ you, Rodimus. You're honest with me. You're driven. You're brave. You're one of the most capable and quick-thinking people I've ever met, and seeing you in your element is awe-inspiring."

He makes a pained noise. Thunderclash, for once, doesn't try to soothe him.

"I've tried giving you space. I've tried to support you without overstepping your boundaries. I've tried to reach out when it seems like you're in desperate need of a friend." The stupid fragging board game. It's probably still scattered on the table. "You don't ask me for help, and you brush off any I try to offer. If _that's_ coddling, I don't know what else I can possibly _do."_

Thunderclash looks at him. Not angry anymore, just… tired. "At this point, Rodimus? I think I have to give up."

Oh.

That.

That's what he wanted, right?

He looks down at his hands, curled on his knees. That's what he wanted. For Thunderclash to just— _stop._ This is what he's been asking for, _begging_ for. Changing his mind now would be—flighty. Immature. And he can't be that, because he's—he's trying. He's trying, so hard, to be the captain that Megatron wanted him to be. That Magnus wanted him to be. That Drift, that the whole crew, that _Ratchet—_

"If you don't have anything more to say to me," Thunderclash says quietly, "I'll show myself out."

"Don't," Rodimus blurts. He slaps a hand over his mouth immediately. Thunderclash pauses, halfway out of his chair.

Thunderclash waits.

Rodimus lifts his hand from his mouth, holds it a little higher to hide the captain from his field of view. "If you leave right now. If I'm— _alone,_ right now. We both know what I'm gonna do."

Thunderclash's gaze feels like it's burning a hole in his hand. He can't picture it. Skeptical 'Clash, sure, but—without any veneer of politeness, it'd look completely alien on him.

He has to finish the thought. Maybe he should, actually, _try_ asking for help? "And. I don't want that."

The chair creaks. He sneaks a glance and can't quite believe it when he sees Thunderclash sitting back down. He lets his hand drop to his lap and tries not to think about what his face must look like.

"What _do_ you want?" Thunderclash asks, not accusingly but not too-gentle either. It's just a question.

He looks away and hunches his shoulders in a shrug.

"I don't mean in general," Thunderclash says. "What's something small we could do right now?"

His optics catch on the bottles all over his desk. "I… could clean those up?"

"Alright, then. Let's do that." Thunderclash eases himself up slowly, like maybe yelling tired him out more than he's letting on. Rodimus grimaces and slips to his feet, then his knees, to collect some of the slag off the floor.

"Can I ask you a rude question?" he asks as he fishes the bin out from under his recharge slab.

"If you want," Thunderclash says mildly.

"Why weren't you at the funeral?"

When he looks back up, Thunderclash is stock-still, back to him. As he watches, Thunderclash's hand on the desk curls tight enough to shake.

Rodimus winces.

"As I told you," Thunderclash says, voice strained, "You aren't the only one who isn't taking it well."

Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ "Sorry."

"I said my goodbyes before the end," Thunderclash continues like he doesn't hear, shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. "He understood. Funerals are… I couldn't…"

Rodimus steps forward and, carefully, puts a hand on his back. "You don't have to tell me anything. I shouldn't have asked."

"You know," Thunderclash says quietly, "I think I might be a coward."

Rodimus shrugs. "Eh. I had to get drunk to go. It happens."

Thunderclash glances over his shoulder, corner of his mouth twitching. "Are you being _charitable_ to me? Has hell frozen over?"

Tentatively, he smiles back. "Don't get too used to it."

Thunderclash actually laughs.

They get his hab straightened out. It's not hard at all, actually. He doesn't know why it's taken him this long to get around to it.

\--

("So," Rodimus says once the place looks like someone actually lives there. "Board game?"

Thunderclash pulls a small, colorful box out of his subspace, optics warm. "I did bring a backup with me, in case you didn't like the first one."

Rodimus snorts. "Optimistic, huh?"

"Was my optimism misplaced?"

He accepts the rules handout and starts skimming it while Thunderclash sets the pieces up. "I guess not.")

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna write up a whole thing and then thought better of it but suffice it to say that board games were not an arbitrary creative choice here. go do something nice with someone you care about, if you can.


End file.
